


Track Changes

by holyfant



Series: Objective & Trajectory [2]
Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Mental Health Issues, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Recovery, Relationship Problems, weird zombie sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 14:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7271872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an up-and-down road, that's the reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Track Changes

**Author's Note:**

> It probably helps to have read Objective And Trajectory for this, though I don't think it's strictly necessary. :-)

On his way home from Simon's, Kieren's feeling of elation flattens and finally fades; he grasps for it, trying to keep it with him, but soon it's displaced by the familiar blankness that covers him most of the time. When he thrusts his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, he accidentally crumples up the letter from the Academy, so he takes it out and tries to smooth it flat. Around him, the bright winter sun whites out the houses, making them shiver.

 

At home, everyone seems to be out; he can hear the lawn mower roaring in the backyard, knows from that that his parents will be doing their Saturday morning gardening. For a moment he hesitates; he should go out and tell them what was in the letter, receive their pride and shoulder pats. Maybe it will help him recapture some of the happiness he'd felt at Simon's. But somehow he doesn't feel like telling them, not yet. He goes up to his room. Music is blaring from behind Jem's door; even if he knocked, she wouldn't hear him.

 

In his own room, he fiddles with a few pencils and starts a half-hearted, restless attempt to sketch the street; there is a swirl of cloud coming up over the houses, back-lit in orange and cream, that catches the eye. He looks at some of his portraits, weighs them in his mind's eye. Which of them should he take along? The most recent ones are technically strongest, but some of the earlier ones are more expressive, angrier.

 

He abandons the sketch and sits at his desk, swivelling the chair. Finally he must admit to himself that the heavy, uncomfortable feeling in his gut isn't going away. “Shit,” he says quietly to himself.

 

He shouldn't have asked Simon, but he'd just been so _happy._ “Dear Mr Walker,” he'd read aloud to Simon, the letter trembling slightly in his fingers, “we have received your application form and are pleased to inform you that on the basis of what you have submitted you are formally invited to audition –”

 

He hadn't even read beyond that point; Simon had jumped up from where he'd been sitting on the arm of the sofa and grabbed Kieren's face in his hands, smiling widely – “That's great,” he'd said, “that's _great_ ,” and they'd hugged, awkwardly angled but warmly.

 

Without thinking about it, Kieren had tightened his hand around the collar of Simon's jumper, and had held him back from pulling out of the hug. “You'll come with me, won't you?” he'd asked, caught in the flush of happiness that had made him press his mouth against Simon's jaw.

 

And Simon had said, immediately: “Of course, yeah, of course I will.” But, damn him, he always seems to _know_. Because when they'd said goodbye in the hallway of the bungalow he'd had his hands in his pockets and his shoulders had been hunched. He'd said with a little too much emphasis to be casual: “ _Sure_ you want me to come along?”

 

“Yeah, 'course,” Kieren had told him. And now, in his chair, looking at the clouds creeping up on the day – he wishes he hadn't.

 

*

 

It's an up-and-down road, that's the reason. Often, Kieren feels all right around Simon, and sometimes he just – doesn't. Simon has been understanding about it, Kieren has to concede. Simon's so _respectful._ He'll leave Kieren alone any time Kieren asks him to do so and he'll come back whenever he's invited to. He'll say “Take your time,” whenever Kieren withdraws, suddenly distrustful or scared. He makes it clear to Kieren that he's willing to wait for as long as it takes.

 

When Kieren's in a bad way, when he's frightened or angry or thinks about the way Rick was killed and about how Simon was going to do the _exact same thing_ , it sort of makes it worse that Simon is so gentle and kind. Because how can he reconcile this understanding and reasonable person with the person who was mere minutes away from splitting his skull with a knife?

 

He can't. The best he can do is ignore it.

 

It's just not working very well.

 

*

 

Kieren doesn't eat, but he's taken up doing the dishes with his mum. Water on his skin is one of the clearest sensations he can still feel, and when he lets the water run so hot it rises into his face as steam, he can even feel a tingle of warmth on his hands.

 

Mum dries and puts away everything, chatting quietly at him in a continuous stream that Kieren only needs to punctuate with a _hm_ now and then.

 

“– but of course there were no scripts left that hadn't been eaten by the rabbit at that point,” she's saying now. “Have you thought about booking a hotel for the audition?”

 

Kieren blinks. “What?”

 

“A hotel, love. For the audition.”

 

“Why would I need a hotel for the audition?”

 

“Well, it's at eight thirty, and the first train for Lancaster doesn't leave here until eight. You'd never make it.”

 

“ _Shit_ ,” he says without thinking. “Oh – sorry, mum.”

 

She tuts, but it's more for show than anything else. “I'm sure your dad would drive you if he could, but he's got the early shift that week.”

 

“No, it's... I'll figure something out.”

 

“Book a hotel. Be easiest.” She swirls the towel round a plate and looks at him, smiling in a way that's clearly meant to convey some extra meaning. “Simon's coming with, isn't he?”

 

He frowns and smiles at her at the same time. “Mum, are you telling me to –”

 

“I'm telling you to book a hotel,” she says innocently. “Do you good for you to get out of this place for a night.” And she actually _winks_ , his _mum_ , before she turns away to put the plate in the proper cabinet.

 

Kieren huffs a surprised chuckle, but as his mum rummages around his smile fades. He looks down at the sink. His white arms look weirdly cut off, disappearing into the soap suds.

 

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Do me good.”

 

*

 

Great. Now his mother is warming up to Simon more than Kieren himself is.

 

*

 

And in truth, he _does_ want to; they'd been going somewhere before everything got turned upside down by Simon coming clean about that whole _first risen_ bollocks. But since then, they haven't done that thing again where Simon carefully puts his fingers on Kieren's skin and lets the feeling filter through; they haven't kissed like that again, slowly, keeping it going for a long time, until Kieren could feel his lips start to tingle.

 

They had only barely begun to explore what it could mean. It was bloody exciting, it was, to feel the blunted remoteness of his general sensation sharpening into something firmer. Just – to _feel_. And to know that Simon _wanted_ to do that with him, was not only willing but _hungry_ to spend hours with Kieren in bed and see what responses could still be coaxed out of their burnt-out bodies.

 

For a while, there was no room for it at all; everything between them was punctured by broken trust, and it set them back on _that_ front to occasional hugs and hello-or-goodbye pecks.

 

Does he want to? He dreams about it sometimes, not feverishly and tinged with shame like he did when he was a living teenager, but – _warmly_ , which is a sensation that only his dreams can still truly provide nowadays. There is still desire left in him, it's just slower, less fiery.

 

Does he want to?

 

(Does he dare to?)

 

*

 

Simon agrees easily to the hotel suggestion, without a hint of either hesitation or innuendo.

 

“Sure,” he says, “that's probably more convenient, yes.”

 

*

 

Mum, dad and Jem see them off at the station; Jem says to Kieren, quietly, inside a quick hug, “Go get 'em, _tiger_ ,” and he feels obliged to pinch her, hard, on the forearm.

 

*

 

Beyond the train window, the countryside flashes past: streaks of watered green, the neat rows and hedges of a world restored, bent on a new order. There are still untreated sufferers out there; they are rare now, but they are still chased by people coveting the small delivery fees, they are still shipped to treatment centres to be restored to their former selves, to the knowledge of their actions. A week ago the papers ran a story about a middle-aged couple hiking near Hadrian's wall, ripped to shreds; “They are not animals, but in this state we must treat them as such,” ran the quote from a spokesperson for the Lancaster Treatment Centre, where the culprit was currently under treatment, “they have no morality, and cannot be held accountable for actions in their untreated state.” The son of the deceased: “And who'll give us justice?”

 

The train ducks under a bridge, thunders past a huge painted _HVF CONQUERS_ on concrete; Kieren recalls with a shiver of disgust the Give Back Scheme, when they had to scrub off some of the anti-PDS graffiti in the town while being watched by Gary, who had certainly put some of it there. _HVF R HEROS_. _R_ _OTTERS = MONSTERS_ _. PDS IS NOT A DISEASE_ _IT IS PUNISHMENT_ _._

 

Simon yawns jaw-crackingly behind his hand. “Ugh, sorry,” he says.

 

Kieren shifts his attention towards him. “Tired?”

 

“Yeah. Haven't been getting much sleep.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. It's just the bungalow. Amy wanted me to stay there, but –” Simon shrugs. “There's just... lots of memories.”

 

Kieren blinks. “Right, of course,” he says. He hadn't really thought about that before. “That's bound to be tough.”

 

“Well, at least I have a good reason for staying.” He flashes Kieren that brief smile of his, the one that makes his eyes go crinkly.

 

Kieren smiles back, a little embarrassed at the implication. He fidgets with his jacket zipper to make the moment pass. “So... not thinking about moving on yet, then?”

 

“I've told you,” Simon says. “I'll be here for as long as you'll let me.”

 

Kieren doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything. The silence lengthens, not exactly comfortably.

 

“Are you nervous about the audition?” Simon asks.

 

“Yeah, a little, I guess,” Kieren says, relieved to be able to jump on the pretext. (He's not exactly nervous about the audition. The audition feels a long way off, and the night lying between it and him seems dark and unknown.)

 

They talk for a while about the audition, what it'll be like, some of the pieces that Kieren has selected to take with him, secure in his bag. After a while they drop into a nice sort of silence, the kind they used to have often, before Simon's coming clean made it difficult to be that comfortable with each other. It's nice, to feel that it's returning a little bit.

 

But Simon stirs. “Can I ask you something?”

 

“Hm.”

 

“Why did you ask me to come along today?”

 

Kieren stops looking out the window and focuses on Simon. “Er, I guess I thought it'd be nice.”

 

“And is it?”

 

Kieren narrows his eyes at him. There is something in Simon's voice that is off, that is sending a slight tremor of warning through him.

 

Simon leans forward. “Because you don't _owe_ me anything, if that's what you were thinking.”

 

“I know that,” Kieren says, immediately annoyed. “If anyone owes anyone, it'd be you, wouldn't it?”

 

Simon looks at him for a long moment. “Is that how you feel?”

 

Kieren tilts his head a little and doesn't answer.

 

“'Cause I don't know if that's what I can give you,” Simon continues, frowning. “If that's what I'm here for, to be in some sort of debt – I mean, I do want to… make things right, I do.” He looks straight at Kieren. “But only if I _can_ , only if you want me to.”

 

“Why would you think that I don't?” Kieren asks.

 

“Because,” Simon says, and he smiles a patient smile that reminds Kieren of – of teachers, of pastors, “you are shutting me out at every turn.”

 

Kieren frowns. That's – quite different, that is, from the feeling he himself had. “Am I?”

 

“Look, I do understand,” Simon says earnestly. “And I don't blame you. I know I hurt you. I am immensely sorry for that, but I know that being sorry doesn't make right what I did.”

 

Kieren's insides are starting to twist; he doesn't _want_ this conversation. It's a familiar feeling, one that he hates – one that had led to so many things he regrets now; shutting out his mum and dad every time they tried to talk, ignoring any mention of getting professional help, going to the cave that final time.

 

Simon knows about many of these things already, but he doesn't seem to realise that talking the way he is makes Kieren want to clam up and protect his soft parts. “I don't want to rush you,” Simon is saying. “That's why I'm asking you if this whole thing isn't just – you forcing yourself to do something that you don't feel ready for.”

 

Kieren blows out an unnecessary breath. “Look, I can decide for myself what I'm ready for, all right.”

 

Simon nods. “I know – I'm here, aren't I? But if you need me to do something else than what I've been doing, then I'd like to know.”

 

The train rumbles over the tracks, taking a bend; a misty rain taps light like fingertips against the window. “You're doing fine.” Kieren frowns. “Except for thinking I asked you to come along out of some weird sense of obligation. That's stupid.”

 

Simon smiles thinly. “I suppose that makes me stupid.”

 

“Jesus, _don't_ –” Kieren snaps, then reins himself in, “you're not stupid and you know it. Where is this coming from?”

 

It's a long moment before Simon answers. “This is probably going to sound a little pathetic, but I just want you to know that that I'm not your only option.”

 

Kieren blinks.

 

“You are,” Simon plows on, and his eyes when he looks at Kieren are large, wondering, “an amazing person. No, I mean it,” he says, apparently in response to Kieren's expression. “Knowing you has shown me what there is of value, even now, after everything.”

 

“Simon, please,” Kieren begins, uncomfortable.

 

“Just let me say this,” Simon says, and he leans forward. “All the ways that I've always wanted to change, before I became too fucked up to care – I was never able to do it, not before I died, not after I came back. I couldn't do it until I met you. And that's not to put that on you, because all you did was _be you_ , and that was enough. I know I got there myself, in the end, but you were –” He stops, laughs a small laugh. “I sound like a fuckin' idiot, but it's true. You were the inspiration I needed.”

 

Kieren fidgets, half flattered, half uncomfortable. It's – Simon _does_ this, he always has, really, from very early on; he looks at Kieren openly, tells him what he thinks of him: _tell me what you want,_ Simon had said, in Amy's kitchen, _I'll do anything to give it_ _to_ _you, because –_

 

“In case you didn't know,” Simon says, “I'm in love with you.”

 

“ _God_ ,” Kieren says, and covers his face with his hands, because it's just – a little too much, all at once.

 

The sound of the train changes as it rushes into a tunnel; behind Kieren's hands things go dark. He's panicking a bit, and at the same time part of him is calm enough to find it a little funny: that he can't take these words without fear, words that he'd always wanted to hear from someone, that he'd always wanted someone to say while looking at him without shame. He drops his hands. The train is out of the tunnel. They've left the countryside; instead of green meadows the view is now of rubbish-laden, rain-logged backyards. Simon is watching Kieren, looking more than a little unhappy.

 

“Should I not have said that?”

 

Kieren shrugs. “No, you're allowed – I mean –”

 

Simon smiles a painful-looking smile. “Look, you don't have to say anything. I know it's – fucked up, and too fast in any case, regardless of whether you will ever be able to forgive me. If you don't feel the same way, that's probably _good_ , because –”

 

“Okay, shut up, all right?” Kieren's cold skin doesn't have the circulation to blush anymore; nevertheless he thinks for a second he can feel the phantom thump of blood in his face, rushing warm to the surface.

 

Simon does as he's told.

 

“You don't get to tell me how I feel,” Kieren says. “You don't get to decide that.”

 

Simon puts up his hands in apology. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

 

“And you don't get to put together a time table for this, either,” Kieren continues. “I know I'm not the best at, you know.” He gestures between them. “ _Talking_ , I guess. About real stuff. I can't do it, not like you.” Simon looks like he's going to protest, so Kieren hurries to say: “Why'd you think I took that letter from the Academy over to yours?”

 

Simon purses his mouth, thinking.

 

“I hadn't read it yet, you know.” Kieren raises his eyebrows. “My dad wanted me to read it at the breakfast table and I took it over to yours instead.”

 

“You...” Simon smiles a little. “Wanted me around when you read it.”

 

“Yeah.” Kieren rubs his forehead; an old shielding habit. “I guess I sort of expected you to know that.”

 

“Just like I thought you knew how I feel about you.”

 

Kieren makes himself meet Simon's eye. “Yeah.”

 

Simon reaches across for Kieren's knees, rests his palms on them. “I don't need you to know where you are yet. I mean it,” he says, in that blasted earnest way of his. “For me, it's not so hard. I'm in love with you.”

 

This time, Kieren smiles; this time, it awakens a flutter of emotion inside. “That's – good. It's good.” He grabs Simon's hands, squeezes them; the nerves in his fingers wake up to the touch, allow the feel of Simon's cold, smooth skin to filter through.

 

Simon's eyes crinkle. “See? We're not so bad at talking after all.”

 

“We should do it more often,” Kieren says, smiling too.

 

“Yeah.” Simon sobers. “Be a bit less careful with each other. I think we can take it, don't you?”

 

“Yeah.” He looks up, attention drawn away by the clicking of the tracks, the train slowing down. “I think we're here.”

 

Before filing out of the compartment, Kieren takes Simon's face in his hands and kisses him on the lips, briefly. “No one has ever told me they're in love with me before,” he says when he pulls back, finally revelling in it a little, allowing himself to hear the words.

 

Simon's mouth quirks a little. “Well, I've never said it to anyone before, so that evens it out.”

 

*

 

By the time they arrive in Lancaster, dusk is coming on. The pubs are full of people eating late dinners; the terraces are packed. There's football on, snatches of song pour out of doors when they open. Simon and Kieren have to ask the way to the hotel several times; the people they ask are helpful and polite, and only one of them flickers his eyes over Simon overtly. He gives no other sign, and the directions he gives them seem to be correct. On quiet streets, Simon rests his hand on Kieren's neck, squeezes it until the feeling makes it through, slow but steady.

 

The hotel receptionist books them in. “The room heating's out, but –” She glances at Simon's undisguised face, not in an unfriendly way. “It's not that cold tonight, and I can have blankets brought in for you, Mr Walker, if it's a problem.”

 

Simon's eyebrows raise a tiny fraction.

 

“No, that won't be a problem,” Kieren says, feeling suddenly uncomfortable about wearing his cover-up, its protection seeming more and more like a deception these days.

 

*

 

Double bed, chintzy sheets, a single chair that is turned towards the bed with an expectant air. The lamps are shaped like flowers, enclosing old-fashioned bulbs; they buzz with electricity when Simon clicks them on. He drops his rucksack onto the chair and stretches his shoulders, groaning. “Are you getting muscle pains from that new Neuro formula too?”

 

“Sometimes, yeah. More cell growth,” Kieren says, and busies himself with his bag, not really unpacking it but just fiddling with it, because this room is so small, and Simon is in it, and if he doesn't look at his bag he'll probably have to look at Simon. He runs a hand across the Bad Religion shirt he'd brought to sleep in, tugs at the spare pants he packed, then tucks them back in, self-conscious.

 

When he finally looks up, Simon is in the chair, elbows on his legs, leaning forward – a little unpleasantly resembling a therapist. “You're nervous.”

 

Kieren scratches a hairline itch that isn't there, pats his clothes again. “No.”

 

“No,” Simon echoes him, smiling a little. He leans back, and loses the therapist look. “D'you want to hit the town?”

 

Kieren takes his hands off his bag, puts them in the pockets of his hoodie. “Not really.”

 

“All right. Well, a romantic dinner's out, sadly.” Simon smiles and tilts his head. “What do you want to do then?”

 

Kieren narrows his eyes, trying to determine whether Simon is just trying to fuck with him. He'd think that would be an un-Simon-like thing to do, but – maybe this is Simon, being less careful.

 

He glowers. Simon holds his innocent expression, his mouth pursed cheekily. It's a little battle; it feels good. Simon finally gives out, laughing a little. “I'm at your service,” he says, inclining his head.

 

“Don't say that if you don't mean it,” Kieren warns.

 

“Who do you think I am?” Simon looks almost offended. “Of course I mean it.”

 

*

 

They shower separately; Kieren nudges up the temperature until he can feel it on his skin, a far-off heat like a bonfire burning just a little too far away, the warmth of it nevertheless flushing through his skin and giving him an artificial blush.

 

He watches himself in the mirror, after. The make-up gone, the lenses removed, he looks mottled: a mangy thing like a lost dog coming in from the rain. Before – before everything, Jem used to say it wasn't fair she always had more zits than he did; she doesn't say things like that anymore. He thinks, quite deliberately: _this is me_. His eyes are pale, the pupils small and unresponsive. His veins are dead, dry rivers that go nowhere, that surface through the white of his skin in tracks of blue, dirt cracks in marble. These are all things that he no longer minds or even notices when he's looking at Simon – you get used to it, he realises, standing there in front of the mirror in the wet fug of the bathroom, you get used to it if you let yourself.

 

 _Told you_ , an imagined Amy whispers in his ear, phantom-pinches his cheek. _Told you, silly._

 

*

 

Kieren's on the bed, naked except for the towel; Simon's at the foot. He'd dressed after showering, now he's undoing his shirt again, thumbing each button through its hole with a certain slow precision. Kieren watches him. Under Simon's loose clothing, his body has a malnourished look about it that will never go away now, but there is also lingering compactness and strength.

 

“Do you trust me?” Simon asks seriously, looking up from the last button.

 

Kieren holds his look. “No,” he says, “I don't,” and immediately he feels his shoulders rise a little with the weight that's taken off him. It's a relief to say it, and he has to duck his head to hide an unexpected smile.

 

When he looks up again, Simon looks a bit sad, but unsurprised. He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders; Kieren's eyes follow its descent down his arms, over the white-mottled skin, the eternal track marks. “All right,” he says simply. “What do you want me to do?”

 

The question gives Kieren a little thrill – something between trepidation and desire. “Erm,” he says, and then he clenches his jaw and tells himself that he will _do_ this. “All right, take off your – socks,” he experiments, just to see what Simon will do.

 

Without hesitation Simon bends to pull off his socks, then he straightens again. For a moment, Kieren is sorry he can't see what Simon's bare feet look like against the floor.

 

“All right,” Simon says. And waits.

 

“Okay, trousers.” Kieren watches covertly as Simon undoes the button on his black jeans, unzips them, and slides them down his thighs. He's seen Simon's legs before, but watching him undress is a different sort of experience. It makes him feel bolder. “Now I want you to come here.”

 

Simon complies, coming towards Kieren on hands and knees across the mattress. When he reaches him, he sits back on his heels, hands facing palm up on his thighs. Almost like he's praying.

 

“What d'you need?” he says. “I told you I'd do it.”

 

Kieren sits up. “Yeah, you did, didn't you? Are you sorry now?”

 

“Not yet.” Simon smiles.

 

Kieren studies him; there is an uncomfortable prickle of fear in his gut despite the fact that he's in control.

 

Simon notices. “I don't know how I can convince you that you're safe with me,” he says quietly.

 

“You can't.” Kieren's voice is tighter than he intended, and he clears his throat. “Not yet. You'll just have to – be there for me, until I'm ready to start believing it.” He knows it's not fair, but it's honest, and that's the best he can do at the moment.

 

Simon doesn't argue, just stays there in his loose pose, his palms exposed. Kieren looks at the white flesh of his arms with their dark needle wounds.

 

He breathes out consciously. Of course he doesn't _need_ to, but fear isn't different now than it was before. It's still the same feeling of pressure in his chest, of suction and sinking down into quicksand. Breathing helps; his body has a memory too, and it's quite easily fooled.

 

“It's all right,” Simon says.

 

“Shut up,” Kieren says.

 

“It's not real.”

 

“It is. Shut up, all right.”

 

Silence. Simon's voice is changed when he speaks again: “We can stop, if you want.”

 

Kieren closes his eyes, breathes through another uncomfortable ripple of anxiety; it loosens, and then instead of frightened he feels indignant. “No, listen, I don't want to stop. It's not because there's a hurdle that we should just give up.”

 

For a moment, it seems like Simon's going to argue, but then he doesn't. He looks a little worried, but he's also smiling. Silence, then. What feels like minutes of it. Kieren's body settles slowly, the tension bleeding away. With some difficulty, he holds Simon's steady gaze, forcing down his instinct to break the contact. Simon looks at Kieren in exactly the same way Rick never did, Kieren realises. _Directly_. With Rick it was all about glances in rearview mirrors, brief eye contact abandoned in favour of tipping back the bottle of cider or staring at the cave wall. Kissing in dim light, never out in the open, and then walking back towards the village with their heads ducked, each looking at the path their feet were beating over the leaves. All he ever wanted, back then, was for Rick to look at him without hesitation.

 

“What are you scared of?” Simon asks.

 

Kieren thinks it over. “Not _you_ ,” he finally says. “Which is, maybe I should be, but –”

 

To his credit, Simon doesn't wince.

 

“But I'm not,” Kieren says, and he means it. “Maybe that's the problem, that I'm _not_ scared, when I _should_ be, when any _sane_ person would be –”

 

“You're afraid you're making a mistake.”

 

“Well, I made one before, didn't I?” Kieren says simply.

 

“Kieren, I _swear_ –” Simon begins, expression pained, but he doesn't finish the sentence and instead says: “ _I_ made the mistake, and it's – it's like someone else made that decision, it's so unfathomable to me now. I want to make it right. But what _I_ want isn't important, it's _you_.”

 

“I'm just tired of being confused,” Kieren says tightly. “It's all I've ever been. And I don't want to _think_ about it anymore, or _talk_ about it, because I've done all that and it never gets any clearer. I just want to _do_ something, try something, and see what happens.”

 

Simon doesn't respond for a second, then inclines his head. “Yeah,” he says. “That sounds good to me.”

 

“What you said that night,” Kieren says. “Finding something shared. I want – I want to do _that_.”

 

“Okay.” He moves in, and touches a hand to Kieren's arm. “Lie down?”

 

Kieren scoots down so he's lying down the length of the bed and turns onto his side. Simon follows his lead and lies down next to him, mirroring his position; their bodies are two parallel lines on the mattress, not touching. For a long moment they just look at each other.

 

Simon moves his face closer and kisses Kieren's mouth. Once, twice. He draws back for a second, then leans in again. The kiss is longer this time, still simple and dry, just a touch of lips to lips. Kieren lets him, doing nothing much except press back into it a little. The sensation starts off far-away as always, but Kieren is familiar with the way it grows; as he focuses on it more, on how Simon's mouth feels against his, the feeling becomes a bit clearer.

 

They're still not touching anywhere else. Their mouths are the only point of contact. It feels – odd, but nice. Like... like energy is passing back and forth between them via that one point. Simon kisses Kieren's upper lip, then his bottom lip. “All right?” he asks Kieren's mouth.

 

“Yeah,” Kieren replies, before pressing forward and kissing Simon with a bit more gusto, and when Simon makes a pleasant sound in response, Kieren uses that to slip the tip of his tongue between Simon's lips. He focuses; the sensations tighten. He can feel Simon's mouth becoming a smile, and that's _lovely_.

 

Simon opens his mouth, lets Kieren in, licks back between Kieren's lips. Simon's a good kisser; not that Kieren has much of a basis for comparison, and either way it's different now, but Simon is very good at setting a pace that makes the flickers of sensation intensify until they're nearly continuous and Kieren's dead nerves are fooled into thinking that, well, _warmth_ is passing between them.

 

He makes a sound without meaning to. Simon pulls back just a fraction.

 

“It's okay,” Kieren hurries to say, a bit embarrassed, and to overcome the feeling he kisses Simon again and slots his hand into Simon's jawline, pulling his face closer. Simon takes it as a cue to put his arm around Kieren's waist. Automatically, they shift closer until they're touching navel to breastbone; and in response there is a shiver, full-on, powerful, that flees up Kieren's back, running on fast feet from his tailbone to his neck, and there it spreads a feeling that feels like – a slow-spreading pulse, starting at the center of his stomach and rippling out slowly.

 

Simon notices and pulls back. “Kieren, you're shaking,” he says, frowning a little.

 

So he is, Kieren notes, feeling the tremors inside himself. “It's not bad, I promise,” he says and he pulls Simon into him more, seized by a desire to be as close as he can. He wraps a leg over Simon's, and is gratified by the sound that Simon makes to that and by the way he moves his hand over to Kieren's thigh and squeezes it through the towel he's wearing.

 

There isn't the same pooling of heat in his groin, there isn't the pulse of blood gathering there. He can still remember what it felt like – on his own, under the covers, or the few times with Rick; a fast, panting, half-shameful half-delicious thing, that was all about speed. It was pressing forward until the shame was pushed aside by the pleasure, it was like running, running, _running_ , and then jumping: taking a plunge into the deep and then floating back up slowly when it was over.

 

This is different. Simon kisses him without hurry, because – there is none. The weight of his arm around Kieren's leg is lovely and stable, nudging their hips closer to each other, strengthening the embrace.

 

And even though it's different, it's still thrilling when Simon slides his hand up his leg, pushing up the towel as he goes. His groin is just a place on his body now like any other: he doesn't have an erection, can't, won't – and still it's different. Simon cups his arse under the towel, presses them together closer – Kieren bites at his lip, likes how the pressure of Simon's fingers tightens in response.

 

And the good bit is, this doesn't collapse under its own tension. They no longer have the feeling of tumbling, of being pulled forward by a tide they can't control, but now they have the time to do this for a long, long time. Simon kisses Kieren: mouth, cheeks, eyes, neck, following the little dry waterways of his veins visible through his skin, down to where his heart is quiet and peaceful. Simon kisses his hands, each fingertip, each line; he avoids his wrists without having to be told. Simon fans his hand out against his ribs, pressing, radiating sensation from each fingertip as he holds them there, lets the weight translate to Kieren's nerves, that fizzle and flicker on and off. And there's nothing like an orgasm – that is lost to them, that white-out burst of heat. But there _is_ Kieren gasping as something seems to, well, _fuse_ , and for a moment, a brilliant moment, he can feel all of Simon's weight on him, hips against hips, teeth at his neck, their legs entwined – and he almost pushes Simon away with the fullness of it.

 

“Y'all right?” Simon murmurs, pushing himself up on his elbows.

 

“I – yeah,” Kieren says, “I just – I just felt a lot, just now.”

 

Simon drops his mouth back to where it was on Kieren's collar bone, and Kieren, wrapping his arms around him, can honestly, truly feel him smiling, and that's. Well.

 

*

 

In the morning, they don't ask after each other's dreams. Instead they administer each other's shots. Kieren does Simon's fast, trying not to look at the bony glint of his vertebrae in the gaping scar that divides the planes of his back – it's still shocking, that, to see. The only concession Simon gives to the pain when Kieren fires the gun is a slight tensing of his shoulders.

 

They scoot round, switching places; Kieren sits on the edge of the bed with Simon behind him, knees around him, not quite touching.

 

“I used to do this for Amy,” Simon says quietly, and gently nudges Kieren's head down a bit more.

 

“Did you,” Kieren says carefully, ducking his head, eyes down.

 

“Yeah.” A pause. Kieren manages to focus more on the steadying touch of Simon's hand on his nape than on the cold kiss of the Neurotryptiline gun as it slides home, and he tenses, awaiting the familiar sharp burst of pain, but Simon doesn't fire the shot yet. “Sometimes I think that it was our own Neuro blend, the one that we made at the Bungalow, that that's the reason she, that she was – changing.”

 

Kieren says nothing, toeing at the faded pattern on the rug.

 

“But then it doesn't make sense that it's not happening to me, is it?”

 

“Hm,” Kieren makes himself react. “Who knows?” Almost unexpectedly, Simon shoots; Kieren presses his eyes shut, biting through the pain, which is still, perversely, the brightest sensation he's capable of feeling, fired as it is directly into the tatters of his nervous system. As it does every time, the thought crosses his mind that this ritual is the only thing that stands between him and the complete loss of his self: that inside him there is still a potential for senseless violence, for a hunger so great that it still pervades most of his dreams. And that this will be so, for every day for the rest of his – his life.

 

“All right?” Simon asks, rubbing his thumb through Kieren's hair.

 

“Yeah.” Kieren gets off the bed, looking for his clothes, half avoiding Simon's eyes. He knows that it isn't fine anymore, the way he can't talk about Amy, the way he ducks into a different aisle in the supermarket when he sees Philip approaching, but – he can't, not right now.

 

“Hey,” Simon says, smiling, and grabs his hand to squeeze it. “Don't worry, you're going to do great.”

 

“Yeah.” He squeezes back. “Thanks.”

 

In the bathroom he decides not to put on his cover-up mousse for the audition. They'll know, anyway – it's on his application form, a neat little ticked box.

 

When they come down into the hotel lobby, the same receptionist is still manning the desk, looking the worse for wear: but she looks at them, and gives them a friendly nod.

 

*

 

Simon's not allowed to join him for the audition; there's no audience, just the jury.

 

“Well – good luck,” Simon says in the hallway of the Academy, hands deep in his pockets.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Simon looks like he's going to say something, but then doesn't. He smiles, closed-mouthed. There is a light of warmth in his eyes that Kieren hasn't seen for a while.

 

“I'll see you after,” Kieren says.

 

“I'll be waiting outside.”

 

Going inside, he very consciously doesn't look around at Simon – he trails his finger over the wooden panelling of the grand entrance door as he pushes it open, its exquisite carving work, and tries to feel the touch of the wood against his fingertips. His body, removed from itself, but in the slow process of becoming something new, feels nervous in a whole new way: not the buzzing, electric feeling of before, but a feeling like a weight, anchoring him to the world.

 

*

 

He finds Simon on a bench outside the Academy, watching pigeons scuttle around for crumbs. His head whips round when Kieren touches his shoulder; he looks surprised, as if he'd been off in a world of his own.

 

“Hi,” he says, “how'd it go?”

 

Kieren plops down next to him. “All right, I think.”

 

“They say anything?”

 

“Just that I'd be hearing from them in two weeks.” He considers. “One of them remembered me.”

 

Simon gives him an eyebrows-raised look. “From before?”

 

“Yeah.” He feels a little disturbed by it. “Said she was pleased to see me again. Sounded like she meant it, even.”

 

“Well, clearly that means you're in,” Simon says lightly. “I'm calling it now.”

 

“Don't jinx it,” Kieren says, but his discomfort lessens a little as he follows Simon's gaze: the pigeons, fluttering and hopping in the sunlight.

 

“Wanna go home?” Simon asks.

 

“Yeah,” Kieren says. “I think so.”

 

*

 

They're alone in a compartment again. This time, they don't sit across from each other, but side by side, collapsed together, Kieren's head against Simon's shoulder, their hands loosely connected on Simon's thigh.

 

“So,” Kieren says, and clears his throat, “how do you know?”

 

“Er, know what?”

 

Kieren chases the words around his mouth until they allow themselves to be said. “That you're in love.”

 

“Oh.” Simon seems to be thinking about it for a long moment. “For me,” he finally says, “it's that this time round, I'm glad to be alive. Because if I wasn't, I couldn't be _here_.”

 

Kieren squeezes Simon's hand to deal with the rush of tenderness expanding in his chest, pushing upwards into his throat. Simon squeezes back; the solid press of his body is a very _there_ sensation, that grows in strength as Kieren presses closer into him.

 

“Are you still dangerous?” he asks Simon softly, feeling oddly safer this way, not looking at Simon, not having to face that serious gaze.

 

He can hear Simon swallowing, which is curious. Simon is usually better than he is at refraining from the things their bodies will do out of habit but don't actually need anymore; breathing, swallowing, shivering.

 

“I don't... think so.” A pause. “Not to you, at least.”

 

Kieren sucks on his cheek. It's honest, that's something. For all of Simon's faults Kieren hasn't been able to catch him lying. “And to yourself?” He looks out the window, directing the question at the countryside sliding past.

 

Simon gives it a long moment's thought. “Let's just say self-destruction doesn't sound as appealing as it once did.”

 

“'Cause you're glad to be alive this time.”

 

“Yes.” There's a beat. Then Simon jostles him gently. “Hey now, are you mocking me?”

 

Kieren smiles. “I'd never mock an esteemed member of the PDS clergy.”

 

That earns him an elbow in the ribs.

 

“Ouch,” he says with emphasis.

 

“Oh, don't overreact. You haven't got a functional nervous system anymore.”

 

“Sure?” Kieren turns a little, and kisses Simon's jaw. “Are you _sure_?”

 

“Hm,” Simon says. “Better check one more time.”

 

They kiss, thrown closer together when the train takes a bend, and Kieren doesn't think at all, for long moments, about being seen.

 

*

 

When they get off the train, Simon carrying both of their rucksacks, Kieren immediately spots his dad, standing with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, trying hard to look inconspicuous.

 

“What on earth –?”

 

His dad spots them, and puts up a hand. “Hullo, lads! Over here!”

 

“Dad!” Kieren says, as they wake their way over to him, “What're you doing here?”

 

“I was just on my way to the shops and I remembered that your train'd be here round this time and – I thought it'd be fun to give you a little welcoming committee. Ta-da.” He smiles his unconvincing _I-am-not-lying_ smile and moves forward to shake a bemused Simon's hand.

 

“Right,” Kieren says, quashing the impulse to protest, and he catches Simon's hidden little smile when he glances at him.

 

They take off. His dad draws Kieren next to him, hand on his shoulder. “So how did the audition go, Kier?”

 

“Fine, I think. I should hear from them in two weeks.”

 

“Oh, all right. And did you lads have a good time?” He half aims the question over his shoulder at Simon, who's patiently trudging behind them, a bag slung over each of his shoulders.

 

Kieren glances back too; Simon catches his eye, eyebrows raised, his pale eyes questioning. “Yeah,” Kieren says. “Yeah, we did.”


End file.
